


Fool to Care

by LovelyLogic



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Drunk Dee, Emotionally Manipulative Dennis, F/M, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9095260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLogic/pseuds/LovelyLogic
Summary: Like it or not, Dee would always be his fool.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First time attempting anything for IASIP. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It was a usual slow night at Paddy's Pub. Shitty music, scraggly patrons that were probably homeless, the gang hunched over beers and avidly arguing. About what, Dee had no clue—she was deaf to all of them, slurping greedily at her fifth beer.

 

 _Assholes,_ she thought, silently condemning them for not caring about a concern she hadn't bothered to voice. Granted, they wouldn't care if she _did_ , likely berating her for minutes on end before embarking on one of Frank's questionable schemes.

 

Still, Dee couldn't squash her urge to scream out: _"I tried again today!"_ She'd attended ten auditions this week, practiced tirelessly for each one, ignored the boys when they inquired about her recent absence at the bar.

 

Ten auditions, ten long ass lines—ten pitying smiles that crumpled like paper, dissolved into a fit of giggles as she retreated from the audition room: _"Don't call us, we'll call you."_

 

"No you won't," she sneered, unaware that she'd spoken at all. A week's worth of drinking had taken its toll, and she hardly noticed that her buzz had shifted to drunk. The gang's gaze zeroed in on her, glancing collectively from her disheveled appearance to the crowd of empty bottles next to her. Dee hitched, preparing for the incoming barrage of insults.

 

"Dee!" came Dennis' shrill cry, splitting the blackout drunk she was trying to cultivate. Dee's head snapped up, heart racing at the sound of her brother's voice—cruel, calculating, and more than a little disgusted at what he perceived to be weakness.

 

 _And he'd be right,_ jeered her conscience, all too willing to deride her tonight. _You're far past your expiration date._

 

His inquiry came rapidfire, though Dee could hardly wade through her fog enough to hear him.

 

"Have you been paying attention to anything we've been saying? Can you stop nursing your lukewarm beer for five seconds and listen?"

 

Dee stared at him, then Mac, then Charlie and Frank. It occurred to her that they were all a sorry bunch of losers, and that Charlie had been huffing paint again—his eyes were red around the irises.

 

Much as she hated Charlie's stupidity (and the fact that she'd been stupid enough to fuck him, his surprising skill aside), she felt bad for the poor guy, nearly considered driving over to his apartment on her way home and dumping his inhalant collection in the garbage. She'd done it before—whenever Charlie got too hung up on the Waitress or spent a night in his bad room. The idiot was tough, but she didn't want to wake up one day and find him overdosed on an offbrand adhesive.

 

 _You've gotta stop bringing your lovers back to the bar,_ she thought, glancing at Mac.

 

Slicked back hair, wearing a tank top that proclaimed some 80s action hero—he was at it again. While the entire gang knew Mac was gay, only Dee knew about the condom wrappers (and at times, used jackets) that littered the back office, let alone the fucking _boxers_ she found stuffed in random places. In the ceiling, in the vents, even under the vodka crates in the basement—Mac was apparently getting a lot of action, though why he and his conquests couldn't just _pick up their fucking clothes,_ Dee would never know.

 

Either way, she'd made a habit of coming in early on the nights Mac closed, just to check for any stray boxers or condoms to throw in the incinerator before Dennis or anyone else showed up.

 

Speaking of her narcissist brother, Dee even kept him under control—that is, greatly thinned out his stash of emetics hidden in the bar. Much as she hated Dennis' sustained lectures about his godlike body versus her comparative repulsiveness, Dee didn't like how gaunt Dennis looked after he and Mac's monthly dinner at Gugino's, or how little he ate in general. His face had grown so drawn, cheeks whittled down to razor-sharp edges, eyes sunken, collarbones threatening to burst through his skin.

 

So Dee poured out five of his seven emetic concoctions, watched the nauesea-inducing sludge snake down the drain, then returned the empty bottles to their original spots.

 

 _As if he's not handsome enough already,_ she mused, pounding the rest of her beer.

 

Only as she went to answer him—defiantly of course, because fuck these guys, they didn't know what she'd done for each of them, or what she'd gone through this week—did the gravity of that thought strike her. She angrily pushed it aside.

 

"No I haven't, and no I won't," she chirped, glassy eyes locking with Dennis' sharp ones. They were always twinkling with some plan or zinger, and Dee found them _pretty_. But that did little to dull the beer-fueled rage that bubbled in her throat.

 

"In fact, I don't give a shit what you're planning, and you can count me out, y'know why, Dennis? Because you assholes can't be bothered to ask me how my goddamn _day_ was, but you want me to care about your fucking _schemes_? After all I do for you—burning boxers and dumping paint and making sure you don't kill yourself and you can't manage to—"

 

She got unsteadily to her feet, huffing out a slurred "doesn' matter." And it didn't. They would jeer her and she would take it, only to return tomorrow for more. She braced for the retorts of _"bird"_ and _"whore,"_  as she clutched for her keys and bag.

 

But there were none, so she looked up to find shock on the boys' faces.

 

Mac stared sheepishly at the rest of them; Charlie rubbed at his nose, a frown on his grimy face. Frank stared in silence, then walked out of the bar, calling out over his shoulder about a 9PM appointment with Artemis at Wendy's.

 

Dennis simply stared, baby blues wide open. In them she caught pride and denial, his usual arrogant suspects. But Dee moved past these, saw the concern on his face as he looked her over.

 

 _Gotcha,_ she thought, glad to have shut them up for all of ten seconds. But it as it turned out, the concern wasn't for himself. Instead, it was for her as her legs wobbled. Before she could properly register it, Dee fell square on her bony ass with a less-than-graceful thud.

 

"Jesus, Dee! Get yourself together," called Dennis over the bartop, breaking the spell of silence she'd cast over them. Whatever awkwardness there'd been between the boys had vanished, replaced by jeering a common target.

 

"For a bird you're closer to a penguin," laughed Mac, waddling around in an impression of one.

 

Charlie, ever at a loss for something clever to say, simply chimed in with an ill-timed: "Yeah, clumsy like a stupid falcon."

 

This of course led to an argument between Mac and Charlie over the falcon as a majestic bird, leaving Dennis, who was _still_ staring at her.

 

"What?" she shot weakly, standing up with the help of a chair.  He pursed his lips as if mulling something very serious over, cocked his head to the side in the way Dee only saw him do when she was sick.

 

Shaking his head, he crossed his arms and let out a heavy sigh. "I'm taking you home. Gimme your shit."

 

Dee, who very suddenly realized she was drunk—fuck that, _very_ drunk—answered with narrowed eyes. "Why? What'dya want?"

 

"To still have some liquor left over for tomorrow—you drank like a damn fish tonight. Now come on, before I change my mind about letting you in my Range Rover." The words were supposed to sound harsh and incisive, but they came out soft in a way that made Dee pause.

 

And by pause, she meant blush. Dennis didn't seem to notice, huffing as he walked around the bar to take her keys and bag from her. His brow wrinkled when she jerked away from his grasp, then softened as he tried again, this time more deliberate. Dee leaned heavily on him, grateful for something solid as the world around her spun.

 

"Mac, Charlie—I know you can't run the bar as well as a certified proprietor like myself, but try not to burn the place down while I'm gone, got it?"

 

Mac nodded eagerly, beaming at Dennis, and Dee nearly laughed. _He wants it so bad._

 

In the voice of Boss Hoss, Charlie gave an affirmative that sounded worse than a simple "sure" would have. Dennis shook his head and held the door open for her, keeping a steady hand at her lower back as he guided her out of the bar.

 

With her brother's help and various grumbling about her being a gangly tangle of limbs, Dee got in Dennis' car and buckled up.They were without words for a while as Dennis put on his typical Steve Winwood and Dee concentrated on keeping the contents of her stomach down.

 

She stared pointedly out of the window, careful not to catch her brother's gaze. The sinner in her had emerged, and with it the thoughts Semi-sober Dee usually buried; among these were the merits of murdering Frank, new ways of further exploiting Cricket, and getting Charlie to take a bath—fairly normal in comparison to the worst of them. _Banging Dennis._

 

Granted, this wasn't an _entirely_ alien struggle to her. When they were younger, Dee used to spy on her brother having sex. Perverted? Sure, but d Dee needed dirt on him—some silly line he called out mid-fuck to be used against him as blackmail so he would drive her to the mall. Such was the life of a Reynolds.

 

And though she got her material, Dee also got a very graphic picture of her twin plowing the shit out of some big-titted slut (which wasn't altogether repulsive). What's more, her brother had one hell of a stroke.

 

Combined with Dennis' odd need to touch her and ruin relationships with every man she happened to date, Dee was drawn to the thought of him on lonely, very desperate nights. Steven, her purple nighttime friend, knew this all too well.  

 

Still, this was never something she voiced, and sure as hell wasn't something she felt like dealing with on a night when she was drunk and horny from the vodka. Dennis wasn't about to make it easy on her.

"You've been auditioning again, haven't you?" he said, glancing insightfully at the messy drunk to his right. Dee's breath stopped and she looked at him with an expression she was sure radiated "oh shit." Dennis only smirked, pleased that he'd guessed correctly. Different from the one he donned with the guys, it was almost...sweet.

 

"How'd y'know?" she asked. There was no use trying to hide anything from the man who was quite literally her genetic mirror.

 

"Dee, I know _everything_ about you," Dennis said dismissively, in the way he did when he was about to launch into a rant.

 

Then deciding against it, he quirked a brow at her and answered. "I found your script pages in the back office, and given that they were made up of words, not symbols and pictures, I think it's safe to say Charlie isn't writing a sequel to _The Nightman Cometh_."

 

Dee chuckled, tickled by the idea of a follow-up to Charlie's mess of a musical. Then sobering, she nodded.

 

"I've got'to try Dennis...m'life can't pass in a goddamn bar with the rat king and closeted Schwarzenegger."

 

Dennis laughed openly at that, nearly genuine save for the jab he threw in. "Oh Dee, you'll _never_ succeed at acting—your best character is a tragic version of yourself...from your YouTube diaries."

 

Then quieter as he got to the heart of the it: "Besides, you'd miss us."

 

"Shut the fuck up, Dennis," she huffed, instantly reminded of why those nights with Steven-and-Dennis fueled fantasies usually ended in a ruined orgasm.

 

No matter how close she got herself with the idea of Sweet Dennis, _Real_ Dennis came in to spoil it with some sort of jab about her looks or career. "You were afraid when you thought I was gonna go off to LA—afraid I'd succeed and leave you all by your lonesome with two suicidal maniacs."

 

Dennis opened his mouth to say something, then closed it as he looked over at her with fear in his eyes. "Fine. You'd miss _me_."

 

He was right, but Dee wasn't about to concede that point to Dennis "King of Everything" Reynolds, so she remained defiant.

 

"No I wouldn't," she persisted, pouting at him in the way she used to when they were in school—pink tongue between glossy lips and squinted blue eyes. A peculiar look flickered across his face as he glanced down at her lips then back at her. _Damn blush_ , she thought as she felt heat rise in her cheeks. Dennis smiled—a real one this time.

 

"Whatever you say, baby girl."

 

Dee tried to smile, but only managed to gag before passing out, slumped painfully against the passenger window.

 

**-X-**

 

She awoke on her bed, draped haphazardly with a musty blanket from her closet. Her first thought was she'd slept through the night, but a quick look out her window told her it was still dark. Sitting up with a grunt, she pushed the blanket aside and attempted to stand, only to discover she'd remained tipsy.

 

"Great," she mumbled, staggering toward her dresser for a change of clothes.

 

Normally, Dee had a routine. Sober Dee would leave Drunk Dee a set of clean sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt for when she stumbled through the door, brown-bagged bottle in hand. It was a simple gesture, but it'd saved her life countless drunken nights. Tonight she lacked the foresight to do even that. Then again, she hadn't been planning to get drunk or yell at Charlie and Mac and Dennis—

 

 _Dennis!_ Her heart sped as a single ray of dread penetrated her haze.

 

 _I didn't drive home, I didn't drive home!_ she thought, shoving her shutter doors open. There wasn't much she remembered about today—for instance, if she ate breakfast, or took her birth control pills (she'd forgotten for the last week or so), or turned off the kettle before heading to Paddy's.

 

But she did know one thing.  

 

She'd left the audition scripts on the coffee table, the booklets waiting for perusal when she was sad and halfway through a pint of Ben & Jerry's. The _last_ thing she needed was Dennis nosing around, declaring the scripts pathetic, then ranting about his porn movie starring Dolph Lundgren.

 

But Dee was too late. Panting, half from dehydration and half fear, she stumbled into the living room.

 

"Dennis! You're still here," she laughed out, nearly hysterical. Then leaning on the doorframe as another wave of spins hit her, she attempted to sound cavalier. "I appreciate the lift, but you can head home. I'll be alright."

 

Dee gulped, eyes zeroing on Dennis in repose—cup of coffee by his side, shoes kicked off...script in hand.

 

 _Goddamn it,_ thought Dee, chastising herself for leaving them out.

 

Sure, it was her home. But with a gang as obnoxious as theirs, it was a good idea to foolproof the house just in case. There was a stash of money in the wall, confiscated paints from Charlie, and a black book of Mac's gay lovers in the event he decided to try her.

 

Somehow, she'd managed to leave the most intimate part of her life in the open for Dennis to rip apart. Yet when he looked up, there was none of his usual malice or scorn. In fact he looked almost _touched_ —well, as much as someone with such sociopathic tendencies truly could be.

 

He watched her for a moment, caught her gaze and held it. If Dee didn't know better, she'd say it was mournful,  the way people are when a favorite television show goes off the air. For a moment she said nothing, fuzzy mind trying to decipher what she was seeing.

 

Dennis eyes dropped from hers, down to the script, and then to rest of her as if finally realizing she'd spoken.

 

"Nonsense, Dee," he said—his voice cracked around the words. "You're clearly two steps from death and I don't feel like explaining why to the police why I left a dead bird alone in her apartment."

 

Dee sighed, desperately wishing he'd drop the act. She had neither the mental bandwith nor the patience tonight, and every nerve in her body was tensed, waiting for Dennis' assault to begin.

 

It didn't, so she fired back with a typical instigating line. "Shut up, Dennis. You jus' wanna make fun of me for being ugly."

 

A  glimmer of guilt flashed across his face, as if pained; Dee ignored it, not liking the jolt it sent to her chest. His flannel—navy and white to go with his dark wash jeans and moussed hair— was unbuttoned a bit, and she could just make out a sliver of his chest.

 

They stayed silent for a minute, Dee toddling toward, then falling into her armchair with a plop. Dennis leafed through one of the scripts, confusion on his face.

 

"You tried out for a romcom?" he said after a while, fixing her with a dubious glare.

Dee looked up, but didn't answer. _Not one of my prouder moments_ , she thought, recalling that particular audition. It wasn't even for the lead, instead for the sassy friend who acted as wingwoman to the plucky heroine; she choked on every line.

 

Dennis shook his head with a bitter chuckle. "Are you so desperate to get away from us that you'll literally audition for a part worse than the one you play in our bar?"

 

"And you wouldn't, Den?" laughed Dee, embracing the absurdity. "I'm not keen on playing bar-bird whore the rest of my life, so 'scuse me for trying to make it better...at least I'd be away from you."

 

She froze as the last word left her mouth, unaware that she'd grown so bitter. Her head swam with all the insults she had for him—from _"You peaked in high school!"_ straight through to _"I've seen the girls you've slept with, and they're all ugly"_ —though the shock on his face told him she'd said more than enough.

 

Dennis looked like a goldfish, mouth hanging dumbly open. Dee moved to retract the statement, but it seemed he'd already recovered.

 

"Well, if that's how you feel," he said, regaining his typical haughtiness. Dennis' eyes zeroed in on her, lighting with his special brand of cruelty. "Then I guess you can get the fuck out of Paddy's tomorrow. You're fired."

 

 _Fired._ For a moment, the word didn't register. Could he fire her? _Not anymore than a body could fire its heart,_ she thought, vaguely impressed by the nonsense phrase. _Maybe I should become a poet..._ Pulling her head away from that particular daydream, Dennis' words descended on her with a sickening finality.

 

"You can't do that," she whined, childishly crossing her arms across her chest. Unfortunately, Drunk Dee had no concept of her outfit—a deep black v-neck and her feel-good bra with extra lift. Meant to inspire confidence for her audition, her crossed arms tugged the v-neck down to expose the curve of a neon pink cup. "I'm bartender."

 

Dennis scoffed. "Dee, you're the worst bartender _ever_ — I could get Charlie to do your job tomorrow. Besides, you can't even keep your shirt on, much less mix drinks."

 

Dee watched Dennis' contemptuous eyes slide from her face to the exposed bit of her bra and modest hill of cleavage between—she blushed, but did nothing to fix it.

 

 _Drunk Dee strikes again!_ she thought, vaguely aware that she was playing (flirting?) with her twin brother, whose naked body was a _very_ fixed image in her head. Funnily enough, none of her gave a shit, only wanted to press Dennis' buttons now that it was just the two of them.

 

"You'd miss me, or that little stand-up prank not prove it to you, Dennis? You _need_ me," she said, snickering evilly as she got to her feet. "Did you forget that whole spiel about you being my 'perfect select?'"

 

That one hit hard. Dennis leapt in his chair as if struck, blue eyes clouding over as he roamed them over her body. Finally meeting her gaze, Dennis' knit his face with such disgust that she was temporarily afraid for her life.

 

"Don't you _dare_ speak me to that way," he snarled, throwing the script down; Dee gulped, but pushed on.

 

"Or what? You'll kill me? Like I haven't heard that one before," she laughed with genuine apathy.

 

It struck her sometimes, at 5 AM on nights where she was woken by a call from Frank or Charlie or Mac, that she was stuck here, bonded to these pieces of filth. _What does that make me?_ she wondered, already aware of the answer. _Trash._ Pure, unadulterated trash, same as them. At least if Dennis hauled off and killed her she could have peace, dead with the satisfaction that he'd be in prison until he rotted.

 

"Go ahead, Dennis! Take me out. Slit my throat, cut me up into little pieces, put me in a box—I don't give a shit. Like I've got something to lose that you all haven't already taken. Now if you're quite done throwing a temper tantrum in my apartment, you can get the _fuck_ out."

 

And with the first bit of self-confidence she'd had all week, Dee Reynolds turned on her heel and walked back to her room, fully ready for a session with Steven. Perhaps her subconscious knew Dennis wouldn't take that well; perhaps he knew that too—maybe she'd just made it easier on them.

 

Whatever it was, she hardly reached the shutter doors of her bedroom before Dennis was on top of her. Moving faster she thought was humanly possible (either that, or everything in her head was drunk slow), he had a hand on her arm, yanking her around so fast Dee _knew_ it would bruise.

 

"Dennis! What the fuck?" she shrieked, only half surprised. The perfect picture of rage, he was a sight to behold with his fervent eyes, flared nostrils, cheeks so chiseled that his face leapt out in relief. He threw her against the wall beside him.

 

"I can get the fuck out, Dee? No, YOU can!" he bellowed, pacing in front of her. He railed at her, boiling over like a pot left on too long. "I love you, I fucking care enough to make sure you don't fucking die at the bar, but you want _me_ to leave? What, so you can go fuck some sleazy director in LA, huh? So you can whore out what's _mine_?"

 

Dee stared at him, head aching from where she hit the wall. _His._ The word didn't strike her as foreign, only a verbalized version of the truth that'd gone unspoken between them; Drunk Dee wasn't so convinced. She relished the sight of a broken Dennis, chest heaving as he stared in horror at the purpling bruise on her arm.

 

"It's not yours, Dennis," she said, inflicting damages of her own. As soon as the words left her mouth, Dee knew she'd touched tinder to flame. _Oh shit,_ she thought, heart speeding as he stopped pacing and stared at her, eyes a cocktail of fury and lust.

 

As he neared her, Dee thought about running, but realized there was nowhere for her to go. No matter where she went, she'd end up coming back to him. Pressing her hands flat against the wall, she braced for the worst—a blow, a hand around her throat. Nothing was ever certain with Dennis, least of all his actions his actions when he was upset. When they were less than a foot apart, he hooked a single finger in her jeans and pulled her flush against him.

 

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong! Pull away and go to bed!_ chanted what was left of her conscience; part of her truly wanted to, at least so she could breathe again—the air around them had grown painfully thick.

 

But drunk on the look in his eyes, on the husky breath that puffed his chest against hers, Dee shut it off. Right or wrong, she was the hottest she'd been in recent memory, and there was nowhere to hide from the truth. _I want to fuck my brother._

 

Gaze never veering from hers, Dennis' fingers deftly undid the button of her jeans, then the zipper, and snaked his fingers below to prod at her. Dee yelped, hips squirming desperately against him. His pupils dilated as he stroked a finger from slick slit to slippery button, a smug smile spreading as he proved his theory correct.

 

"Isn't it though?" he asked, challenging her as he withdrew and stuck a sticky finger in his mouth with an obscene _mmm._ The sight of his finger in his mouth was too much, sent a blush creeping up her entire neck. _Oh god._  "I knew there was a reason we called you Sweet Dee."

 

"Dennis, I—" she tried, attempting one last-ditch at morality.

 

"Shh, baby girl," he said, bringing a finger to her lips. Without realizing it,  Dee looped a hand around his lower back, grinding lightly against the hardness in his pants. "I'll take care of you."

 

He took her face in hand with trembling fingers, longing so strong both of them were shaking. Very aware of the fact they were crossing a rubicon, Dee watched nervously as Dennis brought his lips to hers. Any trepidation she might've had evaporated the second their lips met. In its place was wild abandon, the product of 30 years' tension and something Dee was loathe to call love.

 

Dennis was the best kisser she'd ever come across. It was sloppy, rough and graceless—their teeth clacked together and Dee gripped her brother's hair, eager to ruin the spikes he spent so much time sculpting. Dennis groaned, pitting his coffee-bitter tongue against hers, reeling her bony body into him.

 

 _You're going to hell,_  chided her conscience in a voice disturbingly like Mac's. Dee pondered the possibility for a split second, then shrugged. _As long as Dennis is there, I don't give a shit._

 

Dennis pulled away with a sharp inhale, looked at her with eyes so wide they were almost black. He glanced down at the bra (which was now fully exposed from all the commotion), and back up at Dee with a devious smile that made her weak.

 

"Mine." He said it so forcefully, so definitely that she had no room to argue—not that she wanted to anyway.

 

Dee rolled her eyes and pulled him to her, backing them through her bedroom doors and chuckling at Dennis' moan as her fingers found the tent in his jeans.

 

" _Mine_ ," she shot back, grip so tight it was almost painful. Dennis melted like ice cream on a hot day, bucking into her hand in a silent plea to continue. She did, fumbling with his zipper before Dennis eased her aside and dropped his pants.

 

Dee snickered at her brother's red Polo boxers, because _of course_ Dennis' underwear had to be more expensive than half the things in her closet. That snicker died in her throat as she spied his cock twitching obscenely within its fabric confines. Her mouth watered at the sight, kindled such a heat under her skin that her clothing felt like a prison.

 

 _Off,_ she thought, peeling the v-neck away and shimmying out of her jeans.

 

Dennis growled at the sight of her, fixating on the heave of her barely-contained tits . Then making quick work of his plaid shirt, he tossed it haphazardly onto her dresser, not caring that it toppled the Victoria's Secret perfumes she'd treated herself to.

 

Standing in her underwear, Dee felt self-consciousness creep up once more and flung her hands up to cover what she could; Dennis rolled his eyes. "Dee, what the hell are you doing?"

 

Unable to articulate a real response, Dee sufficed with a single slurred word. "Shy."

 

Dennis huffed, scrubbing his face. He advanced on her with purpose and before Dee could question it, pushed her onto the bed. Dee yelped as she made contact with the sheets, then again as Dennis' hands popped the thin lace of her thong. Vaguely aware of what he was about to do, Dee began babbling.

 

"Hey do you want a beer? Because I can get us a few beers—I think the Eagles game is on in an hour—"

 

"Dee! Will you shut the _fuck_ up and let this happen?" interrupted Dennis, raising his voice once more. He'd crawled onto the bench at the foot of her bed and strategically positioned himself in between her legs. Dee mewled as he pawed at her, and Dennis fixed her with steely blue eyes.

 

Dee gave a little nod, throwing her head back when his tongue lapped a languid line up her slit.  "Oh God, Den..."

 

Dennis didn't respond, but Dee could feel his smug grin as he went to work on her—slurping, winding his tongue in unholy formations, plunging one finger into her, then another. Dee's breath went shallow as she greedily ground her hips into his face, gripped his neck so he couldn't move.

 

She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so good. Not with her purple dildo, not with Ben or Rex or any other of her numerous conquests had she been so wholly _taken_ . Then again, this man was _part_ of her, threaded through her in blood and genes. Dennis was savage yet tender, eyes glinting with pride as he brought his twin sister to the brink. Dee was beginning to short circuit—thrashing, toes curling, body going rigid as she grew closer to imploding.

 

It was then, as she felt herself teetering on the edge of pleasure, that Dennis withdrew entirely. Dee whimpered as he removed his boxers and crawled back on top of her, warmth of his cock on her thigh.

 

"Dear god woman," he said, descending on her lips. Dee didn't bother resisting this time, ceding to the sin as she tasted herself on his tongue. Dennis pulled back, eyed the neon bra like an unwelcome guest, and undid the front clasp to free her modest tits. Dee yelped at the sharp slaps he gave them, biting her lip as her pale flesh reddened under his touch.

 

"Ouch! What the hell was that for?" she protested, wriggling as Dennis pinched her nipples between fingers.

 

"All the years you kept this away from me," answered Dennis, voice choked by desire. "All the men you whored yourself out to that weren't me...you bitch, didn't you know I—"

 

He stopped himself short, glancing down as Dee's wetness brushed his head. Still reeling from his mouth, she was doing her best to manuever his cock into her, brain stuck on a one-track of _fuck him, fuck him, fuck him._ Dennis' hitched, mouth agape as she teasingly slicked his crown.

 

Dee knew damn well Dennis was trying to admit something to her, trying to bare his soul before her. But she didn't care about his confessions—she wanted him _now_. Dennis apparently knew this too because he simply said "fuck it" and roughly entered her, eyes rolling as he bottomed out, hips brought flush to hers.

 

"Yesss," hissed Dee, walls twitching wildly around him. Her arms latched around his neck, her pink-painted nails dug into his shoulders like talons in the flesh of prey. "Take me, Den."

 

Dennis' breath fogged against her ear as he rutted into her; she was so slick, so eager, so much better than he'd ever imagined (and he _had_ imagined).  He wasn't kind about it, surrendering to the sheer need of his pulsing cock. Over and over he punished her, ignoring her yelps of pleasure-pain as he mercilessly stroked her spot.

 

"You like that you whore? You brother-fucking bitch?" he managed between thrusts, her grip threatening to undo him too soon.

 

Dee nodded eagerly, shoved to the brink once more. If it were any other circumstance, Dee likely would've fought back with some witty line, told him to go fuck himself. But she was quite literally _full_ of it, and she could give a shit less what came out of Dennis' mouth as long as he kept going.

 

"Tell me Dee," said Dennis, aware he was a few strokes away from making his sister come. "Tell me you love me, that this pussy's mine and you won't give it to anyone else. _Tell_ me."

 

For a split second, she thought to deny it, come up with some fantastic lie. But this was a night for truth, and Dee had known hers long ago.

 

"I-I love you, Dennis Reynolds," she whispered, rolling her hips up to his and smirking when he whimpered. Dennis gave a contented smile that violently morphed into pleasure as he resumed his pace.

 

"What else?" he demanded, feeling himself on the brink. Dee moaned as she gave herself to him in word, admitted what had been true between them for decades.

 

"And...I won't give myself to anyone else," she said, crying out when he slapped her tit again.

 

"That's fucking right. Now come for me, babygirl—I wanna see that pretty face moan," commanded Dennis, speeding up as they both approached climax. Dee gave a feverish nod and doubled her efforts, gripping him in time with his thrusts and grinding her clit against his taut stomach.

 

It didn't take long, but Dee came first. Mascara-streaked tears marred her cheeks as she was crushed by a near-painful orgasm. Her brain was completely overridden, and she could only manage shrieks as pleasure flooded every nerve of her body. Dennis held her fast, rocking her through convulsions as she babbled nonsense and peppered his mouth with sloppy kisses.

 

She'd barely regained the ability to breathe when Dennis lost his shit. With one last painful shove he spilled into her, hand loosely clutching her throat.

 

"God _damn_ it Dee, I love you—you're mine baby, all _mine—"_ Then strangled cries as he emptied, gazing at his sister's mussed blonde hair and lithe body beneath him; she was shrill and neurotic, challenging and annoying and _perfect_ for him—and now she was _his._ The waves subsided by degrees and Dennis collapsed beside her, panting for breath.

 

Dee fished a carton of cigarettes from her nightstand and lit one, savoring the bitter drag. Dennis flashed her a rare dopey smile, the likes of which she hadn't seen since they were kids; Dee fought the urge to vomit. Given everything that'd happened it should've made her happy—the fact that Dennis finally said what she'd known for years. But his love made her sick, had poisoned her and cost her years spent in doubt and self-hatred.

 

Still she'd never leave him, would always need him if only so he could fuck her senseless and call her pretty. He was the only one she wanted to hear it from. Knowing she'd admitted defeat in a lifelong game against her other half (he was tender now, but would degrade tomorrow her all the same), Dee stared at the milky mess between her thighs and wondered if the tranny was finally ready to have that surrogate child.

  
  
  



End file.
